Flickering Flames
by hregn
Summary: A familiar dream - no, a manifestation of a memory. The dreams begin so differently, yet the end the same way - her disappearing in a blaze. Over 500 years have passed, yet Francis can't forget about her. For so long, he's carried the guilt of it all.


**Chapter 1: The repetition of a flickering light.**

A silhouette of a girl loomed in the sunset in front of him. 'France, Francis,' the figure called out. France squinted, trying to identify the figure - whose back was turned - as he walked forward towards her. '_Oui_? Who are you, dear?'

'Oh come on, Francis,' the girl turned to look at him. 'Don't tell me you've forgotten?' She chortled. Her laugh rung in Francis's ear with great familiarity. 'Is - is that really you,' his eyes widened when he finally realized who it was - the short, dark blond hair around the blue-green eyes that made him smile a forgotten smile. Her hair still wore the pure white flower he had given her the last time they had met. He was surprised that he didn't recognize her sooner. 'Jeanne?' He began running towards her, 'My goodness, Jeanne!'

She opened her arms in an expression of acceptance, 'It's nice to see you, Francis.' But she quickly - yet _slowly -_ put her hand behind her back, hiding them behind the billowing white skirt of her dress. Just as she did so, her bare feet began to fade, engulfed by the light of the setting sun behind her. 'Je - Jeanne!' Francis's joy quickly dissipated, replaced by panic and anxiety. Panic, anxiety, and fear.

Fear and deja vu.

'Jeanne, get away from there!' He hollered at her. But Jeanne didn't seem to be at all bothered by the flames that now licked her thighs. In fact, her eyes held only a look of contentment as she gazed at him. 'I'm glad to see that you're alright, Francis,' was all she said. There was no sense of urgency, no pain, no anxiety.

'Jeanne, get away!' He repeated, but she still stood rooted to the spot. Francis thought that she couldn't hear him - but she could all too well. He tried to run faster, but his legs grew heavy. Panicking, even though he was so far away, he made to grab her, to push her away, or even to die with her - all to no avail. The distance prevented any of that.

When he was finally within a few feet of her, everything slowed. Her voice suddenly reached out to greet him.

'_Non, je ne regrette rien._'

Jeanne suddenly smiled at him as her body was consumed by the bright colours of the sunset. He reached out towards her - but it was in vain. She was there no longer. The only thing left was a patch of scorched earth.

A patch of scorched earth and an unscathed flower.

* * *

><p>'Jeanne!'<p>

France awoke, drowning in his sheets. Tears were racing down his face. He swiftly wiped them with his sleeve. He couldn't believe he had been screaming _and _crying in his sleep. Glancing at the digital clock - usually, he would insist on retaining and shoving upon everyone elegance and good taste in everything, but he had to admit that the clock was _convenient -_ that sat on his bedside table, he immediately realized the cause of his distress. Emblazoned in red amidst the darknesss was:

5.30 am|| May 30.

_It's today,_ he thought. _God, it's the thirtieth._

France stood up from his bed, freeing himself from the clutches of his nightmare.

_No wonder I chose to keep my garments on last night, _he reasoned to himself when he noticed that he was fully-clothed. He walked, quite reluctantly, to his ornate bathroom mirror and saw the man who looked back at him.

He had cloudy blue eyes - _nothing to marvel about, _he remarked - that were framed by wavy blond hair that, at this time of the dawn, stuck out at odd intervals. He had a light and nearly unnoticeable layer of hair on his chin. A look of disdain was worn into his face. 'My god, what is she thinking? Is this what she calls, 'alright?'' He asked his twin in the mirror. He tried to flatten his hair, grabbing his brush to try to force it into submission. But when he surveyed his handiwork, he only found himself more disgusting.

The sound of shattering glass immediately followed.

'Was this what she wanted to save?' He stated more than asked, clenching his bleeding fist against the jagged edges of the broken glass. 'What did she get killed for, anyway?' He shouted, his misery reverberating off the walls. 'What happened to all she did?' All his agony was echoing back at him. He lifted his hand and punched the glass again. This time, a stray shard flew and grazed his left cheek, leaving a crimson reminder. But he said nothing. His silence was enough of an exclamation of pain as any.

The doors to his room were suddenly thrown open by an irritated voice, 'bloody frog, what is all the ruckus about? Do you realise that some of us are still _trying_ to sleep? We're still adjusting our sleeping patterns to yours!'

But his complaint went unnoticed. France simply launched another attack on his broken reflection. Another resounding crash echoed off the tiles.

'Oi, were you listening?' The messy-haired blond visitor began, clearly irked, as he entered the bathroom. But he was taken aback by the sight his emerald-coloured eyes found, his eyebrows immediately shooting up in surprise. He rushed forward - careful to avoid the broken glass on the floor - and yanked the Frenchman's arm away as the latter began another assault. 'What are you doing? Stop it, you bloody -'

'Why did you kill her, Angleterre?' Francis accused the other. 'She did nothing wrong!' He sloppily aimed a punch at Arthur's cheek, making the latter release the bleeding arm to evade the attack - and trip over himself in the process.

'What the - have you been drinking?' Arthur half-asked, half-berated - though he knew that it wasn't possible - as he sat on the floor. 'What the bloody heck are you blathering about?' He quickly glanced at the clock that was visible from his spot on the floor to see whether it was too early or not to be bothering anyone with a loud lecture. 'I didn't kill anyone, you bloody wan -' He instantly ceased his insult, understanding the cause of France's actions, when he saw the date in red on France's bedside. 'Oh.'

'Don't you, 'oh,' me, Angleterre! You . . .' France began, but he faltered, collapsing onto his knees. 'How - how could you?' He buried his face in his crimson-stained hands. 'How . . .' He began to sob uncontrollably.

Arthur simply sat there, unaware of what should be said. But whatever he would have said would've been meaningless anyway.

'She - she shouldn't have . . . it should've been me you burned,' he sobbed, tears cascading down from the oceans of his eyes. 'I wasn't worth it. Just look at me!' He sobbed even harder with the realization. 'I couldn't even _attempt_ to save her.'

'She knew what she was doing, Francis,' the other replied, still sitting on the magnificently tiled floor. 'She knew it very well.'

'Jeanne, why? You shouldn't have - it wasn't - I -' Francis lost himself in his past, in his memories, in his pain. He couldn't even formulate a simple sentence.

'I'm sorry, Francis,' were the only words Arthur could offer to the inconsolable man, a broken, a man shattered by himself. 'About Jeanne, I mean.'

But Francis didn't need them.

Arthur had already apologized centuries ago.

Francis nodded slowly, but he continued to weep. He couldn't compose himself. His gesture signaled for Arthur to leave.

And leave he did moments later.

All that was left was France - no, Francis.

Just Francis and the painful memories of a light that had been snuffed out too soon by a flame.

His saviour, his light,

His Jeanne.

* * *

><p>In my imagination, just as Arthur has a chronic illness come the 4th of July, France has recurring nightmares when the 30th of May comes.<p>

Oh yes, I use _Jeanne_ not _Joan_. Her feast day is on the 30th of May. Her actually death was in 1431 during the Hundred Years War. She was burned for heresy.

If you calculate, it's been about 580 years, I believe.

This is the first time I'm asking for this, but please review. I'd like to know whether I need to improve certain things or not.

Danke. :)


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